


One Less Haven

by K_Hanna_Korossy



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-24 01:20:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4900081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_Hanna_Korossy/pseuds/K_Hanna_Korossy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Hutch is attacked in his apartment, home is no longer a refuge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Less Haven

Written: 2004

First published in "Seasoned Timber 5" (2008)

Fan-Q Award winner

 

Something woke him.

Ken Hutchinson lay in the silent darkness of his bedroom, aware and listening, trying to figure out what it was he’d picked up on even in sleep. Nothing. The apartment building breathed quietly around him, the sounds of traffic on the street outside a muted blur. A siren grew loud and then soft again as it passed by, and Hutch automatically identified it as an ambulance. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Probably just a dream. He shut his eyes again, began to drift. Plenty of time to sleep in—they had weekends off on their current shift, and Hutch was looking forward to two days of working in his greenhouse, doing some laundry, maybe finally finishing that book he’d been plodding through the past week. Starsky had started to tease him about how slow—

There. A floorboard in the living room creaked, and it wasn’t just the building settling.

Hutch began to rise, already reaching for the gun he had in the nightstand drawer, when a softly menacing laugh came out of the darkness in front of him.

“Please, Detective. Don’t get up.”

 

Starsky jogged up the stairs of the apartment building, stopping once to sniff the bag he held and grimace appreciatively. Nothing like a weekend away to restore a guy’s energy. Hutch had felt like being a homebody, wanting only to spend the weekend cleaning his apartment and relaxing, so Starsky had taken a friend up on an offer to borrow a house on the beach for the weekend. Hutch would have loved it, and Starsky was determined to drag him along next time, but for the last few days, Sheila had been plenty of company. Starsky grinned as he fished for the key above the lintel and turned the lock.

“Hey, you up yet? I brought you one of those bran—”

For no reason he could discern, the hair on the back of his neck rose, a shiver of foreboding passing up his spine. Starsky paused in mid-stride through the doorway, hand still on the doorknob, and frowned at the quiet living room.

Nothing was amiss. It looked exactly as it had when he’d shared a pizza with Hutch the Friday before, down to the empty box that still sat on the coffee table. And that, he realized, was what was setting off his alarms. Hutch had stayed home to do housekeeping and chores, but the living room looked completely untouched.

Starsky quietly set down the bakery bag on the table by the door, noting the keys that were still sprawled there just as Hutch had tossed them down on Friday, and slipped his hand inside his jacket as he moved farther inside the apartment.

“Hutch?” Thanks to his unwary entrance, any intruder would already know he was there, so there was no point in hiding. But Starsky still moved softly, catlike, listening for any sound.

Was that a stir from the bedroom?

“Hey, I brought you one of those bran muffins you used to get all the time.” No one behind the couch. “Don’t know if you still like ’em, but you can always give it to Dobey.” The bathroom was still the mess it had been the week before, and there was no humidity in the air indicating recent use of the shower. Starsky’s fingers tightened on the grip of his Smith & Wesson. “Smells pretty awful, but so does most of what you eat, so I figured—” He whipped around the partition, into Hutch’s bedroom nook. And jolted up short.

Hutch was there, in bed, alone, but that was the only good news.

He was hunched against the headboard, his legs drawn up in front of him in perhaps a futile effort at warmth or comfort. His arms were pulled behind him, obviously restrained somehow, and the left shoulder was twisted and swollen. But it was Hutch’s face that Starsky couldn’t help staring at. What he could see beneath the folded bandanas that served as blindfold and gag, made him swallow hard. His partner’s features were purple and swollen under the cap of mussed blond hair. He’d obviously been worked over, and by someone who knew what they were doing.

“Hutch,” Starsky said gently, and swallowed again as he slid the half-pulled gun back into its holster and crossed to the bed. Up close it was even worse, seeing the shivers that shook the man, the caked blood at the corners of his mouth from where the gag bit, the finger-sized bruises on his neck, and the planes of the left shoulder that clearly showed a dislocation. But for the muscle to be that distended—how long had Hutch been trapped like this? The smell of sweat and urine up close gave Starsky some idea.

The blond head had wobbled up at his first entrance, a flinch of fear recognizable even on the distended features. Apparently too out of it to hear Starsky’s running monologue in the living room, but recovering enough that he clearly recognized Starsky’s voice now, and a different kind of pain crossed his face.

The grief and worry went far deeper than the rage at whoever might have done this, and it was only with concern that Starsky eased down on the edge of the bed. “Try to relax for a minute, huh? Let me get you outta this.” He paused in his reach only to lightly touch one cheek, like offering a cat a sniff of recognition, then reached up and pulled the blindfold free. It was askew, as if Hutch had already tried and failed to remove it, and Starsky wondered again how long he’d been there, in pain, trapped, waiting for help. Waiting for Starsky.

Hutch’s eyes looked swollen shut, but one blinked warily, blinded by the light streaming in through the greenhouse and patio doors. Starsky smiled in case Hutch could see anything, and reached past him to unknot the gag.

That was harder to ease free, and his mouth bled even at Starsky’s careful pull, but Hutch didn’t seem to notice. It was probably minor pain compared to the rest of the damage Starsky could see, and what he conjectured was hidden under the pajamas.

Hutch leaned his head back against the bed, wincing, and dragged a dry tongue over dry lips. His one open eye was fixed on Starsky, and there was relief in it, but a lot more, too, wearily simmering.

“How long?” Starsky asked softly. He wanted to touch, but Hutch flinched every time Starsky reached for him.

“What day ’s it?”

His voice was cracked and horrible, but the lifeless inflection was what made Starsky frown. “Monday,” he said quietly.

A rusty wheeze that might have been a laugh. “They showed up Friday night.”

Oh, God. Starsky had really prayed it hadn’t been the whole weekend. All that time he’d been carousing with Sheila, Hutch had been… Starsky forced a smile. “There’re easier ways to get another day off, partner.”

Hutch looked like he was trying to decide between laughter and tears, and even that was proving too much for him. 

Starsky patted his leg very gently as he leaned forward to peer around Hutch, avoiding sudden movements. Hutch’s back had already been giving him trouble the last few months and had to be in agony after being forced into that position all weekend, but the news was even worse, and Starsky grimaced at the confirmation of what he’d feared. Cuffs that were too tight threaded through the iron bars of the headboard, securing Hutch to them, his hands a bloated and dusky deep red. A guy could lose his hands that way, if restrained long enough.

Starsky dipped into his pocket for his handcuff key and spoke as casually as if they were just discussing another case.

“Do you know who they were?”

“No…but they were asking about Moyer.”

Starsky’s eyes flicked over to his partner as he leaned past him again. “Moyer? Bonhomme’s protected witness?”  
“Yeah.” Still that flat voice, rough with pain but lacking any texture of emotion.

“How’re we supposed to know where he is? That’s Gabe’s case.” It took some angling to reach the keyhole without brushing against the swollen hands, but Starsky wasn’t about to cause any more pain than he had to. The cuffs would hurt enough coming off.

“That’s what I told ’em.” Hutch’s breath was starting to hitch; he knew what was coming, too. 

“When’d they finally listen to you?” Starsky slid the key in while holding his breath, cranked it slightly, and heard the _snick_ of the lock.

“I dunno. Hours.” Hutch could have been talking about the game the night before, for all the feeling with which he was describing being tortured.

Starsky thought about warning him, decided against it. It would be easier if unexpected. “Brought you a bran muffin,” he said, mind blanking at anything else, and he pulled one cuff open and off in one motion.

Hutch sucked in a breath and tensed but didn’t say a word.

Starsky bit his lip and quickly pulled the left one free, as well. He tried not to notice the fresh blood that greased the metal as he yanked it free of the bed, or to hear Hutch’s moan, and failed on both counts. “It’s off,” he soothed quickly. “It’ll feel better in a minute.”

Hutch’s hands hadn’t moved, though, probably cramped in place after hours—days—of sitting like that, and Starsky’s face reflected all the pain his partner was holding back as he carefully pried the right hand around to rest in Hutch’s lap. He knew the tears of pain pressing out from those puffed-up eyes were involuntary, but they didn’t help. He reached for the other hand.

“Don’t.” Hutch’s voice was down to a controlled hiss.

Starsky jerked back, opened his mouth to argue, then held his tongue. Hutch was right: with the shoulder in such bad shape, moving the hand would be agony. And while Starsky had popped that bad shoulder in for his partner before, it had been dislocated too long this time. The muscles would be stiff and locked, impossible for him to stretch back into place on the scene. They’d have to do that at the hospital.

Starsky nodded, feeling a little on the edge of losing it himself.

“Okay. Where else are you hurt?”

The laugh sounded like a gasp for air. It chilled Starsky’s blood.

“That bad, huh?” he asked with feeling. “Anything broken?”

“Ribs.”

“Anything else? Something feel busted inside?” Sitting there fifty hours or more with internal injuries would probably have dropped Hutch into shock, of which there was no sign besides those pervasive tremors that could have just as easily been reaction or fatigue. Starsky’s fear for his partner’s life had nearly faded, but it had been replaced by nearly as potent a fear for his mental well-being.

Hutch’s head rolled against the headboard in a silent “no.”

“Okay, I’m gonna go call for help.” The phone was gone from the bedside table, probably across the room somewhere. Starsky didn’t look. “Will you be okay here for a minute?”

“I’ve been okay here all weekend,” Hutch said bitterly.

Starsky softened even further. “If I’d’a known…” He reached out just to skim Hutch’s hair, trying to ease some of the darkness in his eyes without hurting him further.

And jerked his hand back when Hutch flinched away. “Go make the call.”

Apparently, he was not being forgiven yet for not having been omniscient. Perfectly normal reaction, but it still hurt, and Hutch was punishing himself, too.

But Starsky didn’t argue, just nodded and went into the other room to call for an ambulance and then Dobey. On the way back, he grabbed a glass from the kitchen and filled it with water. Hutch had to be dehydrated after so long, and surgery seemed unlikely. Starsky trusted his partner’s self-assessment; Hutch had certainly had enough time to gauge his condition.

The water was grudgingly but thirstily received, then Hutch withdrew again. There was still so much wrong, physically and emotionally, that he wanted to fix, but Starsky knew when not to push. He just gathered the scattered blankets and draped them over his partner, then sat on the end of the bed and watched over him, feeling every wince of pain that tugged at the battered face. His knee was casually crooked to rest on top of Hutch’s foot, but otherwise he didn’t touch.  

They were still sitting there in silence when the paramedics and detectives arrived.

 

One of them seemed to end up in the hospital a couple times a year, and still there were always new forms to fill out. Hutch’s took Starsky nearly two hours, although that included listening with half an ear to the conversations at the nurses’ station, looking up every time someone in a white coat walked his way, long phone conversations with Dobey, Huggy, and Gabe, and then stopping to talk to Eney and Genarro, who’d already been assigned Hutch’s case. They hadn’t found anything at the apartment so far besides faint marks of a picked front door lock, but they would keep at it. Starsky wasn’t the only one who took an attack on his partner personally.

Of course, he would much rather have been with said partner, but after the initial exam, Hutch had told him in no uncertain terms to go. That in itself wasn’t unusual; they both tended to make nuisances of themselves when the other was laid up. What was new and worrisome was Hutch’s tone, gruff and chilly. It didn’t hide his fear, or the pain even the medication hadn’t been able to completely dampen, or the unease that lingered with any recently attacked victim, let alone one who was used to having a gun at hand and a partner at his side. But forcing himself on Hutch would’ve done more harm than good, so Starsky went.

As far as the waiting room, anyway.

The paperwork finally turned in, they directed him to a room upstairs, one of the double occupancy overnights, Starsky knew from experience. They’d stayed in one on the same floor after a recent accident in the Torino. Which meant they were admitting Hutch, not a good sign. Inquiring about the reason why from the nurse only netted him an apologetic smile and the information that he’d have to “ask Detective Hutchinson.”

“Right.” Starsky made a face, turned away from the counter. “If Detective Hutchinson’s still talking to me.” But he headed for the elevator.

Well, if the doctor had talked to Hutch instead of seeking out Starsky, that at least meant Hutch was conscious and aware. That was a point in their favor. Still, Starsky would feel better when he saw and heard for himself.

He didn’t rap on the door, hoping Hutch might be asleep already, but when Starsky stuck his head in, he saw that wasn’t likely to happen anytime soon.

Like all bruising, Hutch’s was growing more spectacular with time. Only the edge of one jaw and some of his forehead had escaped with its natural appearance intact, the rest puffy and/or deep shades of blue and purple. Hutch had been propped on his side, no doubt in deference to broken ribs and his slinged and immobilized arm, and his hands were tucked stiffly against him, still swollen but only a deep pink now, the wrists bandaged.

It looked extremely uncomfortable and no doubt was, especially with the bruises scattered over his torso, but even as Starsky tried to think of an alternative, none came to mind. Any position would put pressure on something that hurt. A lousy situation to be in, but then, there was little about the whole thing that wasn’t already really lousy. And that included the fact that his partner was watching the door with hooded eyes, relaxing only marginally at Starsky’s appearance, and he seemed to be fighting even that reaction. Of all the things he couldn’t change or help that day, this was one Starsky could.

“Hey,” he said quietly, smiling but not even trying to tease. One of them would have to be honest here, and right now it didn’t look like it would be his partner.

Hutch didn’t budge, probably afraid to move anything. “There’s no reason for you to hang around. I’m fine—go to work.”

Starsky ambled a step closer, the only casual act on his part and even that was forced. “You’re fine, huh? What if those guys come back to finish the job?”

Hutch’s eye unwittingly flicked to the door, then returned to glare at him. “I think they got everything they wanted this weekend—there’s no reason for them to come back.”

“There was no reason for them to come after you in the first place.” And why couldn’t it have been him? Hutch’s place had already been broken into twice those last few months, one of those break-ins resulting in the murder of his ex. What happened to your home being someplace you were safe?

“Are you trying to make me feel better?”

Now Hutch was trying to make light. The pain in the rough voice kinda ruined the effect, Starsky considered silently. “No, I’m just tryin’ to knock into that thick blond head of yours that you shouldn’t be doing this alone.”

“I was alone _all weekend_ , Starsky.” Hutch’s teeth were gritted, part emotion, partly the fact that the aggravation had to be making his chest feel like it was on fire. Not exactly the time for confrontations.

Starsky sidled closer. He was at Hutch’s waist now, reaching distance, but he didn’t reach. You didn’t force yourself on someone who’d spent the weekend at others’ mercy. The thought grieved him, making his throat feel thick and clogged, and his voice fell. “And I’m more sorry about that than I can tell you. But you’re not alone now. Partner, remember?” he pointed to himself.

It was one thing to force yourself, another to wear down the opposition. Hutch swallowed, seeming on the verge for a moment of breaking down and letting himself be comforted. But then his face twisted in misery and he withdrew again, eye closing. Shutting out the world again, and Starsky with it.

It was probably how he’d made it through the weekend, Starsky thought with a swallow of his own, and he couldn’t blame Hutch for having a hard time letting go of the only defense he had left. He just wished wholeheartedly Hutch wasn’t using it against him. It was just prolonging the misery of the weekend, the ordeal he was _still_ going through, angry and alone. Didn’t he realize yet he was just hurting both of them this way?  

The railing on the right side of the bed, the side Hutch was curled toward, was down, and Starsky hitched his hip up on the edge, making sure it didn’t jar. Hutch’s face tightened a fraction, but that could have been Starsky’s proximity as much as any sort of movement or twinge. Starsky was just getting started, though, he thought ruefully, and carefully took a couple of the fingers of Hutch’s left hand into his own and started massaging them.

Hutch’s eye popped open again to stare at him as if he’d gone crazy. “What’re you doing?”

The more Starsky looked at that battered face, the more he could see his partner’s features amidst the splashes of color and engorged skin. It didn’t make him wince at all anymore, except for knowing how tender it had to feel. “What does it feel like I’m doing? I’m gettin’ the blood flowing in your hand again. Your fingers still look like sausages.”

“I can’t bend them.” The admission slipped out, Hutch pressing his lips together too late after it.

“Just need to get things circulating again. They’ll feel better in a minute.” They did feel like sausages, the skin taut as Starsky rubbed and coaxed rigid joints to bend. Hutch winced a few times at the movement, but his shoulders weren’t as forbiddingly stiff as when Starsky had first arrived, and the only resistance in his hand was from the damage. One hand finally loosened and a little warmer, Starsky moved on to the other, and Hutch even shifted it a little to give him more access.

Starsky glanced up as he worked.

“Why’d the doctor say he’s admitting you?”

“She. Just passing some blood, no big deal—they wanted to make sure everything was working fine.”

“Is it?” Starsky asked quietly.

“Never better.”

It was sarcastic, but Starsky could detect no perfidy. He nodded to himself and kept working. Silence. Hutch’s neighbor, behind a pulled curtain on the other side of the room, snored softly.

“The doctor didn’t talk to you?” Hutch’s tone was a little less bristling.

“Nope. Think she got called to an emergency.”

Several beats. “They broke two ribs.”

“Right or left?” Starsky kept it nonchalant.

“Left.” No wonder they had Hutch on his right side. Now that he was looking for it, Starsky could see the arm was fixed so its weight wasn’t resting on the lower ribs.

“Concussion?” he asked.

“Just a bad headache. Doc said that was partly from dehydration.”

Which made sense. Starsky glanced up, found a plastic pitcher on the table by the bed. “You want some water?”

“Later. Think I’ll try to get some sleep now.”

Starsky curled Hutch’s hand into a fist, then, satisfied with its flexibility, laid it carefully against his partner’s stomach. “Sounds like a good idea,” he said, sliding off the bed.

Hutch’s head started up from the pillow. “Are you leaving?” He almost managed to sound like the thought didn’t terrify him.

_Aw, buddy_. Starsky shook his head, tone not revealing his grief. “I’ll just sit with ya a while, huh?”

Hutch’s head sagged backrolled on the pillow. “There’s no reason to—”

“Humor me.” Starsky hadn’t missed the relief that had appeared in his eyes at Starsky’s staying. _Aw, buddy..._

Hutch gave a careful shrug. “Suit yourself,” he muttered, and shut his eyes again, drawing himself in more tightly before starting to doze. That stubborn set was there even in those swollen features, but Hutch would know Starsky could match him for stubbornness even on one of his good days, and this wasn’t one. Maybe Hutch needed him, but Starsky still wasn’t completely forgiven.

Or maybe it was just hard to let go of the anger you’d used to survive an ordeal, even once you were safe.

“’S okay, partner.” Starsky settled into the chair beside the bed, making a mental note to track down an extra blanket before he left. Hutch was always cold when he didn’t feel well. “I can wait.”

And when a half-hour later he touched Hutch’s palm, his sleeping partner’s fingers wrapped around his without any difficulty or hesitation at all.

 

Broken ribs hurt. You couldn’t keep them immobile like other broken bones, and every breath grated the jagged edges together until you started holding your breath to stop the torture. Which, of course, only made things worse.

“Breathe shallow,” Starsky said with compassion as he glanced away from the road and over at his silent partner yet again. Hutch’s face was getting whiter between the bruises and shone with sweat, despite Starsky’s efforts to avoid every crack and bump in the road and take each turn at a crawl. At least they were only a mile or so from Venice now.

“I know what to do,” Hutch said breathlessly. “I’ve had broken—”

“And don’t talk. That makes it worse.”

Hutch shot him a glare, which wilted into a grimace as they turned another corner.

Starsky’s mouth twitched in sympathy, and he put a hand on his partner’s leg. It wasn’t shaken off, but whether that was weakness or acceptance, he wasn’t sure.

Hutch tipped his forehead against the glass of the passenger-side door, eyes only skimming the passing street, but old habits died hard. No doubt if he saw a purse-snatching, he’d be half out of the car before he realized—

Hutch suddenly straightened quicker than Starsky thought him able to.

“Where’re we going?”

Starsky turned to him with raised eyebrows. “Where do you think we’re goin’? I’m taking you home, dummy. You got a date with your beda prescription for rest, remember.” ?”

“We don’t have time for that, Starsky. I was gonna look at mug books, remember?”

“The doctor said you’re going home, remember? I can bring the books to you. And we’ve got all the time you need.”

“Starsky—”

“Forget it, pal—I’m still tryin’ to figure out how we’re gonna get you up those stairs. We go to the station first, and I’ll be carrying you.”

Hutch subsided with a defiant glare, probably because he knew he wouldn’t get far without Starsky’s help, and he knew full well and Starsky wouldn’t be helping him anywhere but up to his apartment. Just the day before, they’d been carrying him down those same stairs…

Oh. And here he was supposed to be a detective.

Starsky leaned back in his seat, the picture of casual. “Of course,” he added, “we could go to my place instead if you want. It’s probably a little closer.” Which was a baldfaced lie, but he wanted to see what Hutch would do with that.

A pause. Suspicion, maybe, or just pain medication. “I don’t want to put you out,” Hutch finally said, but those very medications were making his mask slip. His hopefulness could have been written on his face in black ink for all its subtlety. And his desperation to avoid going home, back to the room he’d been tied up and tortured in.

Aha. Starsky smiled at the windshield. “Hey, since when are you putting me out, huh?” He glanced over at his passenger. “Am I puttin’ you out when I crash at your place?”

Hutch had the sensitivity to at least be abashed. Which looked all the more pathetic under the bruising and perspiration. “No,” he said very quietly.

In other circumstances, Starsky would have milked the admission, but Hutch looked like he was just barely keeping it together, his good hand clenched tightly on the edge of the seat. “Okay, it’s settled then.” Starsky took the next exit toward Westchester.

Hutch didn’t say another word, seeming to be too busy with breathing without passing out to do anything else. But while it could have been his ever-heavier fatigue or the air clearing a little between them, Starsky could have sworn Hutch grew more relaxed the farther they got from Venice.

 

“Just one more step.”

Hutch’s head shook with resignation, hanging so heavy that blond fringe brushed Starsky’s shoulder. Between his back and his ribs, every shift of his weight seemed to be torment.

“You can do it,” Starsky argued back, trying to sound upbeat despite the fact he was rapidly becoming exhausted, too. Hutch was barely lifting his feet anymore, his weight heavy against Starsky’s side and straining arm. Between the ride home and the climb up Starsky’s stairs, he was barely conscious from pain and exertion. Starsky hated to think what shape they’d be in if they’d gone to Venice Place, which had nearly twice as many stairs.

He hitched his burden a little higher and switched to coaxing instead of pushing.

“C’mon, partner, you’re almost there. Just lift a little for me.”

One foot managed to clear the step, then, ponderously, the other. Starsky did the heavy lifting, then and crowed triumphantly.

“See! Piece’a cake. Now just a few more feet and you’re home free.”

The mumble almost sounded churlish, and Starsky grinned quickly as he wrangled his keys out of his pocket. One-handed and over-balanced, it was a challenge, but one he’d managed before, and soon he was pushing the door open with his foot.

“Alley-oop. Move those big feet a little, huh?”

“Starsss.”

Protest, answer, or the start of a question before he ran out of steam? Starsky decided it didn’t matter; nothing coming out of the mush inside that blond head right now would make much sense. “Almost there, buddy. I’ve got a nice, soft bed waitin’ for you—I’ll even get out your grandma’s quilt if you’re good. Just a few more—”

Hutch lurched to a stop in the doorway of the bedroom. It took Starsky a moment to realize it wasn’t just another ebb of energy, but rather a deliberate halt. But Hutch was staring at the bed with an awareness Starsky didn’t think he had left.

“Hey,” he said softly.

Hutch listed more than turned his way, but he was listening.

“It’s just a bed, Hutch. _My_ bed, my place, and you’re gonna be safe and sound here, trust me.”

A choked sound. It might have meant to be a laugh.

“Yeah, I know, but I’m gonna be right here, and nobody else knows where you are ’cept Dobey, okay?” Besides which, the creeps who’d beat all that fear into their helpless hostage had clearly given up, anyway, after realizing Hutch didn’t have what they wanted to know.

Thank God they hadn’t felt a need to get rid of their witness before they left. Starsky intended to show his gratitude to them for that one personally.

Hutch swayed and started moving again, and Starsky felt another moment of relief at that small bit of progress.

They fell more than sank to the bed, Starsky yanking covers away just in time, and then he eased his partner back against the pillows. Hutch managed a long sigh through clenched teeth, face drawn in fierce concentration as Starsky arranged his sling, pulled off his shoes and folded up the long legs, and covered him to his chin. Then he reached under the blanket, prying Hutch’s good hand free of the blanket it clenched and sliding his own hand into its place. “Just hang on a minute—it’ll pass.”

The rate of his partner’s breathing and the slowly loosening pressure let him gauge Hutch’s progress as stretched muscles relaxed and the most aggressive pain faded. The line between the blond eyebrows disappeared back into the swelling, and his eye closed. Not quite asleep, but getting there.

Starsky dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out the bottle of pills the doctor had given Hutch before he was released. Prescription-strength painkillers, and Starsky had foisted one on his partner before they’d left, knowing what an ordeal the trip would be. Good thing, apparently. He squinted at the fine print on the bottle: _Take every six hours_. Well, that gave Hutch five or so to sleep.

His grip was lax now, and Starsky eased out of it, then carefully stood, watching for reaction. Hutch was breathing slowly, if not deeply—the stabbing ribs would follow him even into sleep, unfortunately—yup, asleep.

Starsky crept out and shut the door behind him.

He’d promised Hutch he’d be there, but he’d also promised him mug books, and Starsky had to talk to a few of their colleagues. But just in case…

The call to Dobey only took a minute, the answer arriving in another five. Starsky nodded very seriously at the officer at his door, relieved to see it was a veteran of the force he knew.

He pointed at the bedroom door. “Detective Hutchinson’s a protected witness right now, and that means nobody goes through that door but me, got it? Same goes with the front door. Anybody tries to force their way in, you shoot first and ask questions later. Oh, and, Wilt, if you hear anything from that room, call me, huh?”

“Sure, Starsky.”

“Thanks.” He patted the patrolman’s side and gave him a small smile. “I’ll be back by two.”

“Take your time.”

Yeah, right. He ran to the Torino.

 

Gabe was the first stop at the station. The Haitian detective had been as shocked as Starsky that someone had gotten to Hutch in his home, let alone because of Moyer.

“But why would they go after Hutch? It’s no secret I’m the one on the case, if they’re looking for someone.”

Starsky gave him a pointed glance. “You warn Lydia?”

Gabe frowned back. “Are you kidding? First thing I did when I heard from you. She’s been at her mother’s since yesterday.”

“Good.” Starsky ran a hand through his hair and leaned on the back of the chair he was straddling. “All I can figure is, me an’ Hutch were the first ones on the case, before Moyer started talking and Dobey assigned you to protect him. Maybe somebody got the original word without hearing the update.”

Gabe frowned. “Not very professional.”

Starsky shook his head. “Neither is leavin’ Hutch alive after they found out what they wanted, so I’m counting my blessings. So, who do we know that might wanna shut up Moyer but isn’t professional?”

The hitman Moyer had witnessed killing a man probably wouldn’t have left Hutch breathing and they both knew it. But no amount of rehashing brought up another possibility, and Gabe finally promised to go back and dig some more. Starsky thanked him and went to find Genarro and Eney.

That was a little more promising. Several prints lifted off the bedpost and one off the cuffs, plus a few short brown hairs found in the bedsheets. That didn’t match any of Hutch’s recent lady friends as far as Starsky knew, but it did fit his partner’s cursory description of the one assailant he’d gotten a look at. Another unprofessional move, but then, they hadn’t counted on Hutch’s eyes adjusting to the dark before they’d blindfolded him. Not the first time someone had underestimated Starsky’s partner. It wasn’t much, but it was something, and with canvassing progressing around Venice Place, leads could still break.

“Yeah, we’re still trying to track down the owner of a car somebody saw pulling away from Venice Place around the middle of Saturday afternoon.” Eney pulled out his notebook and flipped through it.

Starsky narrowed his eyes. “So what? The shop on the first floor does a lot of business Saturday—that could’ve been any customer.”

Eney found his page, read silently for a moment, then cocked his head at Starsky. “Two guys in hats pulled down low and gloves but no coats?”

“Yeah, but middle of the…” Starsky’s jaw slowly hardened, his back straightening. “Are you tellin’ me they didn’t leave until—”

“Hey, we’re not telling you anything,” Genarro cut in, leaning between his partner and Starsky almost defensively. “But…you said they came during the night sometime and stayed a while.”

Mid-afternoon. And they’d had to have come before dawn, to hide in the darkness and catch Hutch that deeply asleep. But that meant at least…ten hours? More? Of Hutch sitting there, cuffed to his own bed, getting his ribs broken and his arm wrenched out of its socket and not knowing whether he’d survive the day. The burn, banked while his partner needed him, began to smolder in Starsky’s gut again.

“Starsky? You okay?”

He shook his head mutely, not trusting his self-control just then. Starsky stood instead and determinedly began to gather a handful of the books that lined the top of the filing cabinets, needing to do _something_. Genarro and Eney jumped to help, and between the three of them, they got the row of mug books piled into the backseat of the Torino. Starsky finally looked up at the other detectives, then glanced down again. “Hey, uh, you find out anything else, let me know. I wanna hear it even before Dobey does.”

Eney nodded. “Sure thing, man.”

Genarro grinned, slung an arm around his smaller partner’s shoulder. “You kidding, Starsky? I know how I’d feel if it’d been this lunkhead in Hutch’s shoes. We’ll get these guys.” Eney shrugged him off with a look of fond annoyance.

Watching them made Starsky feel lopsided, like he was going to tip over at any moment. Funny how he never felt that way when he and Hutch just split up for the evening or were conducting separate investigations. Starsky managed a small smile, nodded, and climbed into his car.

Finally, going back to where he wanted to be, was supposed to be. And it was only…just after 1:00. Seemed a lot longer, but it had only been two hours since they’d gotten home. With any luck, Hutch wouldn't have even stirred yet.

Still, Starsky floored it; it wouldn’t hurt to hurry, right?

 

The house looked quiet. The patrol car still sat by the driveway, already a deterrent to anyone who had ill intentions. Starsky nevertheless zipped his jacket down for easy access to his Smith & Wesson as he knocked quietly on the door, then unlocked it and slipped inside.

Wilt Chesney was just easing back into his chair in the living room, his hand sliding off his gun. Starsky smiled faintly, nodded. “Any problems?”

“Nope. Heard some small noises like maybe he was in pain in his sleep, but I don’t think he ever woke up.”

Starsky nodded, tossing his jacket on the couch. He hadn’t told Chesney what shape Hutch was in, but what had happened to him was bound to be all over the station by now. “Good, thanks. You’re relieved—let Dobey know.” He went to the bedroom door and waited until the front door closed and clicked before softly turning the knob.

Hutch was still on his right side, asleep despite the lines of pain that drew in his face. But it hadn’t been effortless sleep; the blankets were tangled, the quilt Starsky had laid over him in a pile beside the bed. No wonder he’d been groaning in his sleep. Starsky bent down to snag the quilt, then silently snapped it out to cover the sleeper.

Hutch jolted awake at the touch as if he’d been hit by a mallet instead of a layer of soft cotton, his eye wild and straining to open wider, his breathing already harsh.

“Hey, hey,” Starsky instantly reached out to calm him, then hesitated, wondering where he could touch. He finally took Hutch’s good arm firmly but not tightly, and lost his grip just as quickly as the blond wrenched free.

“…I _said_ —”

“Hutch!” he snapped, then immediately gentled again. “Hutch.” One hand on Hutch’s shoulder, the other against his cheek seemed to work. Hutch abruptly stilled, breathing heavily, hunched around his bad arm. Starsky’s fingers just brushed the sweaty hair at the nape of his neck. “Easy, easy,” he crooned. “You’re safe here.”

That one blue eye focused on him. “Starsk…I…”

“Shh, just take it easy for a minute.” He eased Hutch’s head back against the headboard—no bars on this one, thankfully—and pushed one of his legs up to support his arm a little more. “Didn’t mean to scare ya—the blankets were on the floor…”

“I…” Hutch squeezed his eye shut with a muttered curse. “I just…”

“Yeah.” He could imagine what Hutch just.

“There was…there was no warning, they were just…I don’t know how they…” He was still breathing with difficulty, and Starsky shoved another pillow behind his back. That had to be killing him, too, with Hutch jerking up like that and its recent abuse.

“They picked the lock,” Starsky said quietly. “Probably waited for some noise off the street to cover ’em. No way you could’ve known.” No way Starsky could have known, either, but that was another issue. “Sorry,” he said gently, rubbing lightly at the good arm as another shiver rippled through Hutch.

The eye hardened. “I’m all right.” He pulled away from Starsky’s hand, wincing as he tried to slide flat again.

“Hutch—”

“Look, I just need some sleep, okay? You said it yourself—doctor’s orders.”

“How long are you gonna be mad at me for having to go through that alone?”

“I’m not mad.” The curt tone that contradicted those words would have been amusing another time.

“Hey, I would’ve given anything to be—”

“Starsky, I’m really tired.” Hutch had made it more or less flat, Starsky rescuing the pillow bunched behind his back and propping it under the sling, instead. Hutch ignored him. “I’m not mad, okay?” he added unnecessarily. Almost pleading.

Starsky sighed. “Yeah, okay.” Another time, then; the topic would be harder to broach but at least it wouldn’t be causing Hutch physical pain. He started to stand.

A hand shot out, fumbled for his sleeve. “I’m not mad at you.”

Starsky stopped. “It’s okay, Hutch. We’ll figure it out later,” he said quietly. “I’m gonna be right out there, see?” He pointed to the door and the living room beyond.

“Yeah.” The hand slipped free of his, sliding with embarrassment under the covers. “Sure.” It was almost a groan. He was probably starting to feel the results of all that unwary movement. Resigned to the pain…or to suffering through it alone.

Starsky watched him a moment longer. “Hey, on second thought, you mind some company? I was just gonna read, and I kinda like the chair in here.” Okay, so there wasn’t a chair in there, but Hutch looked too out of it to notice.

“No, that’s—” Another breathless moan. “That’s fine.”

“Okay.” Starsky felt Hutch’s eye on him as he walked out of the room and then back in, chair and book in hand. By the time he settled the rattan chair in place and himself into it, Hutch’s expression had smoothed out and he was asleep.

It was a long time before Starsky finally opened his book and started reading.

 

Starsky plodded up the steps and stopped on the landing at the top to pull out his key. Considering it was the third time in as many months that Hutch’s place had been broken into, Starsky himself had finally taken the spare off the lintel and put it away.

He opened the door and immediately hollered in, “It’s me!” He was risking waking his partner, but Starsky had learned his lesson after coming in quietly the day before, only to find himself staring into the wrong end of Hutch’s Colt as he’d crept into the bedroom nook. Of course, that was Hutch’s first day home and he’d certainly earned the right to be skittish, but still, Starsky had a feeling this wasn’t going to go away so fast.

The living room was empty, the apartment quiet. He’d come by a few days before and cleaned up the place belatedly, everything from the chores Hutch hadn’t gotten to do that weekend, to replacing the soiled mattress, to getting rid of all traces of the weekend’s visitors. The kitchen still looked as pristine as Starsky had left it, and he sighed to himself as he plunked the grocery bag onto the table and unpacked it. Hutch still wasn’t eating right—what a surprise.

“Hey, you want an omelet for breakfast? I brought some tomatoes.”

Still nothing, not even a stir. Curious now, Starsky stowed the folded bag in a cabinet and went looking.

The bedroom was empty, the sheets and blankets the rumpled remains of a rough night. It gave him a moment’s déjà vu of the scene he’d arrived to that Monday, but he quickly shook the memory free. The last thing they needed was his developing a complex over beds and the apartment, too. Starsky kept walking, over to the greenhouse door, and stuck his head inside.

“Food delivery service.”

Missing partner found. Hutch sat on the bench by the door, looking too thoughtful for the early hour of the morning. He didn’t even turn at Starsky’s entrance.

“What, no tip?” Starsky asked, and went all the way inside, sinking onto the bench beside Hutch.

At least he got a faint smile for that. “Don’t eat yellow snow.”

Starsky made a face at him. “Very funny.” There had been a lot of improvement those last five days: the swelling on Hutch’s face was almost gone, only patches of yellow-green and one stubborn blue streak under one eye still coloring his features and neck. The bandages from his wrists were gone, leaving behind fading scars, and his hands were back to their slender norm. Only the ginger movements from the healing ribs remained, and the sling that was also coming off in two more days. Even that was more for comfort than necessity now, as stretched and tender muscles firmed and recovered. The body mended quickly. The mind and spirit… Starsky shook himself out of the mood. “You growin’ a mustache?”

“Still hurts to shave. Anything break on Krieger?”

The mug books hadn’t been any help, but after two days, the prints had finally turned up a match on some street muscle by the name of Harold Krieger. Finding the guy, however, was proving more difficult, despite the APB that had been out on him ever since. Starsky shook his head. “Nope, but we got a confirmation from the witness who saw him leavin’ here that he’s one of our guys.”

Hutch glanced over at him. “And the other one?”

The one they really wanted, the one who’d worn gloves and stayed in the shadows calling the shots and whose voice was still giving Hutch nightmares. Starsky reluctantly shook his head. “But when we find Harold—”

“ _If_ we find Harold, and _if_ he talks, and _if_ he even knows who hired him—that’s a lot of ifs, Starsky.”

“It’s a good place to start, Hutch, you know that. If Harold turns out to be a dead end, we’ll figure somethin’ else out.”

“Right.” Frustration clipped his tone.

Starsky struggled to hide his own. He hadn’t been getting much sleep, either, and fatigue and worry had taken their toll. “How’s the shoulder?”

“Fine.” Hutch rubbed it absently.

“You should start those exercises the doc gave you soon. It’s been a long time since you’ve gone to Vinnie’s.” In fact, Hutch had stopped going to the gym after Diana stabbed him and never started up again, and Starsky hadn’t asked why. Sometimes a guy’s reasons were personal. But that didn’t mean he approved.

Hutch gave a noncommittal shrug and yawned.

“Bad night, huh?” Starsky asked quietly.

“I’ve had worse.”

Starsky pursed his lips, took the plunge. “Yeah, Friday night.”

Hutch stiffened next to him.

“Or Saturday morning?” Starsky arched a gentle eyebrow.

“Drop it, Starsky.”

“Or what? You’re gonna kick me out?” he poked kindly, his expression inviting. “You can’t even walk across the room without having trouble catching your breath.”

Hutch climbed to his feet with effort. “Maybe I wasn’t clear—this conversation’s over. Go to work. I’m busy.”

He hadn’t realized how much he’d been itching for a fight until those fighting words were flung at him. Starsky stood, patient concern fading back and the anger and fear of that week spilling out. “Yeah, I bet avoiding your bed—and me—takes up a lot of time. Why don’t you admit what’s really bothering you, Hutch—you’re scared. Two strangers broke in, tied you down, and beat you halfway to Hell, and there wasn’t a thing you could do about it. Tell me that doesn’t scare you.”

The storm clouds had rolled into Hutch’s eyes. “What do you know about scared, huh? You were out on the beach with your girl while I was sitting there praying— _begging_ —for you to come back. Even after they left, I didn’t know if it was over or if this was just some kind of game they were playing to string me along. Do you have any idea how that feels?!”

Starsky stared at him. He should have been furious, and hurt, and more than a little resentful…but suddenly all he felt was sad. 

Hutch’s breath caught, contrition flooding his face. “God…Starsky, I-I didn’t mean…”

“You sure about that?” he asked quietly.

Hutch took a step toward him. “I’m not mad at you, Starsk, I just…” His voice lowered tiredly. “You always showed up just in time before, and I…I kept praying you’d walk through the door, but...”

Starsky forgave him with a touch on the arm. “I’m here now.”

Hutch swayed a minute under his hand while Starsky held his breath. But his hope faded as Hutch finally tore himself away with a groan. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

Starsky straightened slowly, feeling the heaviness of five days of sleeping on couches and hospital chairs, of supporting Hutch’s weight and his pain. “Okay. Well…I’ll be at the station if…you need anything.” He turned and walked away.

He heard a step behind him, then nearly at the door, his name, quietly spoken. But he wasn’t being called back, and Starsky had borne as much as he could of his partner’s despair without being allowed to help ease it. And so he kept walking, shutting and locking the door behind him.

In the Torino, he had to wipe his eyes clear before he could drive to the station, but Starsky didn’t look back.

 

His colleagues had been busy in his absence.

“You’re not gonna believe this.”

Eney’s smile greeted him as he walked into the squadroom, and Starsky blinked. “What?”

“Patrol car picked up Krieger last night—DWI. Took them ’til this morning to figure out what they had.”

The fatigue, mental and physical, fell away. “Where is he?” Starsky demanded, stepping forward.

“Andy’s got him in Interrogation 2, but we’ve already got a name on your other guy: Ron Vogel.”

The names were starting to blur, but the motive soon became too clear: their protected witness had been playing both sides, protecting the real killer while fingering a rival. It was an old story, but it still made Starsky’s blood burn.

“So Vogel, the guy he was protecting, probably went underground right after you took Moyer into custody. He wouldn’t’ve known Gabe got the case after that.” Eney gave him a sympathetic look.

And Vogel, for whatever reason, had decided Moyer was a loose end he didn’t want to leave untied, wWhich was why he’Vogel had gone after Hutch. It all fit. Starsky stood, heading for the squadroom doors. This was one arrest he wanted to make in person. “We got an address on him?”

“Yeah, but the black-and-white we sent out there turned up nothing. Seems Vogel got a phone call right before they got there, and he tore out of the place. Guess he was tipped off we were coming.”

Dread sank like an anchor into Starsky’s gut. “Or he figured out who put us on his trail and he’s gone back to tie up another loose end.” He rushed for the squadroom door, whipping around as he reached it. “Send some back-up to Hutch’s place.”

The shocked looks of his colleagues as they put the same pieces together, barely registered as Starsky ran back out the door.

 

They’d moved Hutch back too soon. Starsky had known it wasn’t an easy step for his partner, going back to the place he’d been attacked and held captive, but Starsky had pushed because he thought it would be good for him. And now he’d left him there, a sitting duck for Vogel to go back and finish off.

Okay, not exactly a sitting duck, his mind countered as he took a turn at full speed, siren wailing. Hutch was edgy now, on guard, and he wouldn’t be asleep. He also had his backup piece on top of the nightstand, in quick arm’s reach. Starsky had made sure of that. And he’d locked the door behind him…not that that had been much of a deterrent the last time.

He pushed the gas pedal down a little harder, cutting into the empty opposite lane of traffic when his lane stalled to a congested halt.

What had he been thinking, pushing someone who was still traumatized like that? He’d practically questioned Hutch’s friendship, and why, because Hutch had wanted him there when he was going through Hell? As if Starsky hadn’t grappled with the same irrational anger after Hutch’s last-minute save from Simon Marcus’ cult. Since when had they gotten on each other’s case for being human, for those stupid shortcomings that were part of who they were? He just prayed his pushing hadn’t left Hutch off-balance, easy prey for a killer.

Starsky cut the siren a few blocks away, and made the last few turns with controlled passion. He refused to believe it was too late. Not after the last week. God would know that was more than Starsky could bear.

He took the steps three at a time, throat seizing when he saw the door ajar. Starsky threw himself through it, his gun already in his hand.

In less than a second, his sweeping gaze took in the two people in the room. Hutch was standing unarmed by the kitchen table, frozen in front of the stranger with a gun who faced him from next to the living room couch. They both started at Starsky’s arrival.

Hutch immediately ducked, diving behind the kitchen partition.

Starsky didn’t need to see him to know he’d be rolling back just as quickly to try to help from behind cover. But Starsky was still out in the open, and even as he squeezed off a shot he knew would miss, he quickly threw himself behind the meager cover of the end of the sofa.

Vogel hesitated, firing off a shot at the kitchen partition, then whirling and firing toward Starsky. His angle was better; he could pick Starsky off as soon as the detective leaned out to take aim, and they both knew it.

There was an unexpected clatter from the kitchen, and something came flying at Vogel’s head. The gunman sidestepped the missile, a lightweight frying pan, and took a step toward the kitchen, gun raised.

That was his mistake. Starsky slipped out from behind the couch and fired all in one motion, emptying his gun.

The first two shots had been enough.

Still, Starsky rose slowly, examining the corpse for a moment before prodding it with his foot to make sure it was really dead. Finally satisfied, he slid his gun into its holster. Starsky sidestepped the body without another glance, and walked into the kitchen.

Hutch was leaning against a cabinet door, eyes squeezed shut and his arm wrapped around himself. His breathing was a hiss through his clenched jaw, and sweat trickled down the side of his face. Starsky winced and crouched in front of him, touching his arm. “That was quite a pitch you threw, partner.”

Hutch peeled his eyes open and glared back at him. “What did you think you were doing?”

Was that a real question? “What’re you—?”

“Crashing in here like that.” Hutch’s voice was hoarse with strain. “You’re lucky he didn’t blow your head off.”

Starsky sat back on his heels. “Yeah, maybe I shoulda waited until he shot you first. That woulda distracted him.”

“This isn’t funny, Starsky.”

“I’m not laughin’,” he said quietly.

“It was the same guy—I recognized his voice. And he…you have no idea what he’s c-capable of.”

Starsky slid his hand up to Hutch’s shoulder. “And I let him get to you again. I’m sorry.”

Hutch swore. “Would you shut up and listen to me? He’s evil, Starsky—he had p-plans.” He looked like he was trying hard to be furious, but his voice was climbing with fear, his body shaking with reaction, probably as much from the weekend before as from the shootout that had just occurred. 

Which was all just fine with Starsky. The anger had kept him at bay and Hutch helpless to reach out, but fear he could help. His hand was now clasped around the back of Hutch’s neck. “I know, babe, but he’s dead now. It’s over.”

“I kept hoping you’d cut that stupid trip short and come back early, but if…if he’d gotten you, too…” Hutch was grabbing at Starsky’s arm with his good hand, probably not even aware of what he was doing.

“I know.” Starsky pulled gently, just enough to get Hutch away from the cabinet and slip an arm around him. Hutch shakes were becoming bone-rattling and that had to be murder on his ribs. But Starsky was grateful for it. Those tremors were walls coming down, the desperate defenses Hutch had erected to survive the unthinkable but then hadn’t known how to dismantle afterward. “I’m really sorry I wasn’t here sooner,” he repeated, and bowed his other arm across Hutch’s lower back, trying to ease the strain on his battered torso.

Hutch’s hand found Starsky’s side and clamped on there, his words muffled by Starsky’s jacket as the vented rage wound down into incoherence and ragged breathing. Starsky was a week late, but at least he could be there to hang onto now, and he didn’t intend to let go until Hutch was good and ready.

Two uniformed cops burst into the room, guns at ready.

Starsky shifted slightly in front of his partner and nodded with his chin to Vogel’s corpse.

“Call it in—it’s over.”

 

Hutch sat in the easy chair and watched through heavy eyes as they worked the second crime scene in his house that week.

An officer-related shooting always brought to bear the full resources of the Department, and it seemed every division was represented in his small living room: the crime lab crouched down behind his couch, a man from Internal Affairs talking to Starsky at one side of the room, Dobey, Eney, Genarro, and Gabe representing their stakes in in the case onat the other side, and the medical examiner just finishing up his inspection.

Starsky caught Hutch’s gaze, gave him a quick bolstering smile, then went back to his quiet conversation.

He’d already given up his gun, on mandatory suspension while the shooting was investigated, but for all that, there was no doubt who was in charge of the scene. The detectives all stopped to confer with him, the ME reporting to both him and Gallagher from IA, the crime scene tech asking Starsky a question. He moved around the scene with the quiet efficiency of an experienced cop, except for the detours he made to Hutch’s chair to ask him how he was doing or sometimes just to skim his hair or his shoulder. Making sure he was all right.

Hutch didn’t feel all right. The home he loved felt spoiled, violated. The blood would come out of the carpet, just as it had when Vanessa had been killed just a few feet over. The lock would be replaced, the bullet hole in the kitchen partition repaired, and the bloody sheets were already long gone. But the sense of security, the haven his home had been after a long day on the dangerous streets—was that fixable? Hutch had no idea. And that was what really frightened him.

They loaded up the bagged body of the man whose name he still didn’t know, and wheeled him out the door. Starsky watched them with hard eyes as they disappeared through the doorway, then turned back to Hutch, instantly softening into a smile.

“Hey...” He walked over, perching on the couch. “You want another blanket?”

Besides the three already piled over him?, Hutch was almost tempted to ask, but shook his head instead with a brief smile. He’d been an real ass to push his partner away those last few days. Sometimes the depths of Starsky’s loyalty really shook him.

Hutch pushed himself up a little higher in the chair, wincing as his back objected. “Any idea why he wanted Moyer so bad?”

“A few, nothing solid yet. Doesn’t matter much now, I guess.”

Sometimes it helped to know the reasons why, but Hutch had to agree it didn’t seem important anymore. He nodded at the IA man. “What’s Gallagher say?”

Starsky followed his gaze. “Looks pretty straightforward—I should be back on duty by Monday.”

“Just in time for work,” Hutch snorted softly.

Starsky shared his look of grim humor. “Yeah.”

“Didn’t have much time off.”

“I think I’ve had enough time off for a while,” Starsky said soberly.

“Starsky—”

“If you’re gonna say you’re sorry again, don’t bother. Apologetic doesn’t look good on you.”

“I wasn’t gonna say I was sorry,” Hutch quickly said. “Just, uh…thanks.”

Starsky thumped his knee. “You’re welcome.”

“I’m not mad at you, Starsk.”

Starsky’s look went soft. “I know that.”

“I, uh...” Hutch squirmed as much as two broken ribs and an aching back would allow. “I didn’t mean to...lay all that on you.” He’d done it before, lashing out and then sniveling all over his partner, and knew better than to think Starsky would think less of him for it, but it didn’t mean he was proud of the show he’d put on.

“Yeah, you’re a wimp,” Starsky said affectionately. “But you went through a lot, so I’ll cut ya some slack. Just don’t let it happen again.” As if he wouldn’t patiently put up with it again the next time.

The next time. Hutch stilled a shudder. “You’re a real pal,” he said dryly.

He was still obviously under extra scrutiny, though, Starsky’s gaze seeing right through him. “You wanna go apartment shopping next week?” Starsky asked softly, his hand tightening on Hutch’s leg.

Hutch glanced past him at the emptying living room and tried to picture another setting. He shook his head. “I don’t think that’s gonna do it, Starsk,” he said honestly.

“Yeah, well, you always got a place to stay in Westchester if you want it, and we can do some things around here to make this place safer. It’ll get better.”

He wasn’t quite up to his partner’s optimism yet, but it buoyed him nonetheless. He still had some refuges left against the battering of life, even if this place wasn’t one of them anymore. This partner still was.

Hutch nodded, sinking back into the wrap of blankets.

“I know,” he said. “It’s already better.”


End file.
